Beyond the Sunset
by Tarlea
Summary: When Edith Crawley takes a much-needed seaside holiday at Gull Cottage, she meets an unexpected stranger who will change her destiny forever.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **For Queen Lovett, to whom I hope this brings a smile. And thanks to to our favorite Baron for helping me talk through some ideas.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone—we find it with another.—_Thomas Merton

XXXXX

The taxi whooshed along the unmarked, blue-grey roads of Whitecliff. From her perch in the back seat, Edith lazily admired a stunning seaside sunset and yawned happily. She was on holiday for the first time in almost a year. For a whole week it meant no deadlines, no parties, and no Michael. Just rest, relaxation and relief. _Thank you, Anna_.

Soon the road began to climb upward, and before long it ended; at the top of a hill in front of a charming white cottage. Edith stepped from the taxi, stretching her stiff limbs and breathing in the healing vapors of the salty autumn air. She couldn't help grinning as she surveyed her home for the next week. The antiquated Gull Cottage was like something out of a novel—with large windows bending into the wind, a wide door with compartment shutters, and even a widow's walk. These architectural features were further enhanced by a robust growth of ivy that sprawled over the front of the house, two orange crested trees clustered on its north side, and a slightly lopsided wooden gate at the end of the front walk.

Turning the old-fashioned skeleton key in the front door and pulling her bag inside, Edith found that the interiors of the house were equally enchanting. The entryway, flanked by two columns, opened onto a hallway from which rose a handsome, heavily-banistered staircase which led to the second floor. Further investigation revealed a cozy sitting room and library with a delightful bay window seat and an inviting fireplace; a snug, though modernized, kitchen, replete with cabinets and compartments which put one greatly in mind of a ship's galley; and a master bedroom which was divided between a beautifully carved bed, a wing-backed leather chair and hearth, and a set of windows opening onto the widow's walk which arced gracefully around a meticulously polished brass telescope. This fine instrument required further investigation. Edith couldn't resist bending to peer through it, squinting at the horizon where the last hints of sunlight were spilling onto the water. Suddenly, she was struck with the sensation of being examined herself, and she straightened, whirling around into the room to check that it was still empty. It was, and she chided herself as she moved to unpack her things.

An hour and a half later, showered and bundled and sipping a hot bowl of canned lobster chowder, Edith nestled herself into the large wing-backed chair before the bedroom fire and sighed happily. She'd felt an immediate sense of contentment wash over her the moment she stepped across the threshold at Gull Cottage—it felt _so right_ to be here. So—_homey_ and…healing. It was something she never felt in London, or at home at Downton; a sense of completeness she'd never known she'd lacked.

Edith tossed another log on the fire and blessed her luck for being able to spend such tranquil Friday night. Back in London, Michael would have dragged her to yet another party and she'd be forcing small talk with one of his potential clients or hiding miserable in a corner counting the hours until they could leave. _Dear Michael_, she sighed. If he did propose, as he had recently been hinting, there was no way she could keep up with his pace as his wife. He lived his life in such a bustle. This had intrigued her when they first met, but it was beginning to wear her out.

_Now this…Whitecliff…I could get used to this_, she thought, thanking Anna again as she succumbed to the soft lull of the crashing waves on the beach bellow and drifted into a deep peaceful sleep.

* * *

Edith was aware of a faint thumping. She wished it would go away so she could get back to the serene slumber she'd been enjoying; but even as she tried to ignore it, it seemed to get louder, inexorably dragging her from sleep into waking. She opened her eyes to see that the fire had dwindled into glowing embers before her; and the thudding, her groggy mind registered a few moments later, was coming from the window. She pushed herself up from the chair to find that one of the casement windows by the telescope had blown open and was now flapping into the room and bumping against the wall. She crossed to close it, thinking it strange that such a sturdy latch should have come open. _Perhaps it wasn't latched before_, she mused sleepily, pulling back the thick quilt on the bed and sliding beneath.

* * *

Edith rose late the next day, lazing about in the morning, but finally succumbing to hunger and cycling into the town centre around midday for lunch. After eating at the pub and stocking up at the market, she returned to the cottage for a few hours of a delightful mystery novel and a late afternoon walk along the beach.

Returning from her walk, pleasantly chilled and windswept and terribly hungry, Edith heard a noise coming from the library. _Probably some kind of rodent, _she assured , she stopped to listen for a moment, hearing another muffled clomp coming through the half-open library door. Slowly easing herself out of her shoes, she crept a little closer and listened again. This time, she heard what she could have sworn were footsteps. _Rodents don't make that much noise_, her mind warned. Holding her breath, Edith strained her ears and tried to imagine who might be in the library. She hadn't seen a car out front—Anna hadn't said there was a maid—but maybe she'd forgotten to mention it. Another clomp and a cough. _Rodents certainly did NOT cough_. Edith slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out her mobile. A moment later she slid it back, cursing Whitecliff for the first time—its only failing being that it had terrible service. There was a phone in the kitchen, if only she could get to it without the person in the library discovering her. She was lucky they had missed her coming through the front door.

Edith took a few tentative footsteps towards the kitchen at the back of the house, her pulse racing, trying hard to silence her breathing, her ears fixated on what was happening just beyond the library door. She paused when she reached the large wooden door which led into the room, trying to make out a figure though the crack at the hinges. Where was whoever it was? Were they, too, waiting on the other side of the door, ready to pounce? Edith hesitated for several long minutes. Then finally she crept around the edge of the door, ready to bolt for the kitchen. But as she came round into the half-open doorway, she couldn't avoid locking horrified eyes with the figure standing among the shelves. Giving a yelp, she made for the kitchen, her stockinged feet tripping over one of the raised floors that she had thought so picturesque only a day before.

It all happened in an instant. She felt herself falling, was aware that she reached out a hand to catch herself, that the figure from the library was hovering over her…Her mind screeched words of danger and warning—but she felt herself helpless to do anything. She landed, pain shooting through her wrist to her elbow. She curled around her arm, panting, as involuntary tears of pain escaped her eyes and a curse escaped her lips. She pulled herself to sitting, trembling, trying to gather herself to face whatever her intruder might have next in store for her.

But rather than shouting demands, he was addressing her in a polite, concerned, even remorseful voice. "Miss, are you quite alright? I'm so terribly sorry I startled you."

Edith took a calming breath and looked up at the man. He was tall and long-limbed, with one arm crooked into a sling and his head cocked to one side as he gazed solicitously at her. He had a wide mouth and a strong jaw, a long slightly hooked nose, and a set of striking blue eyes. It was the kindness in those bright eyes that made Edith relax, something in them putting her instantly at ease.

"Uh…yes…I think so…" she murmured. "Though I think my arm is..." Edith pushed herself rather ungracefully to her feet, just missing the gentleman's attempt to assist her, "…Well , I'm no doctor, but it bloody hurts," she winced.

"Ah yes, we'd better get that taken care of," he frowned down at her arm, before joking, "You wouldn't want it to end up like mine."

Edith laughed, shocked at his candor. He chuckled along, glad to have made her laugh. As his smile lit up his face, Edith felt her stomach give a tiny somersault. _I hadn't realized before, but he is __terribly__ handsome. _As her companion ushered her into the library and down onto a couch, Edith continued her silent admiration. _He's also—exactly what you'd call 'debonair'_ she opined inwardly. As he bustled off to the kitchen for some ice, she noted that his movements were confident and refined, and that his slim figure sported quite a pleasant bottom. There _was _something peculiar about him—something she couldn't quite name—but, just like the house he seemed to come from another world—one so very separate from her own, and yet familiar.

He returned a moment later holding a dishcloth clacking with ice.

"Now then, may I have your arm?" He entreated, not a hint of command in his soft, courteous voice.

She held out her swollen wrist. He took it, tenderly cradling her slender limb between his long fingers. Edith felt a shiver break over her at his touch—but noted that it was not at all disagreeable. After a few moments examination he made a disapproving sound and relinquished the ice to her.

"Fortunately the doctor around here still makes house calls," he remarked, moving to the telephone in the corner. It was an old style candlestick rotary, and Edith watched as he expertly dialed with his good hand and explained the situation to the good doctor.

"He'll be here in about 15 minutes," he smiled apologetically as he hung up. "Once again, let me offer my apologies. I…had no idea…anyone was in the house."

"Yes, I'm staying here for the week. Are you a friend of the Bates'?" She asked, not unkindly, but trying to make it clear in her tone that unwelcome visitors lurking in her library were not part of the bargain she'd struck with her landlords.

"I…do," he uttered vaguely. "I know the Bates' very well. And…they let me drop in from time to time. I like to keep an eye on the house. And the library," he gave a small lopsided smile.

Edith felt that smile melt into her. _Perhaps not __so__ unwelcome a visitor_, she thought.

"Oh, well I'm a friend of Anna's from university. Her parents are letting me stay for the week. I was in dire need of holiday," she explained.

He nodded.

"I'm Edith, by the way. Edith Crawley. I'd shake your hand but…" she adjusted the icebag against her wrist.

He gave another small chuckle. Edith thought to herself that it was quickly becoming one of her favorite sounds. "No need. I'm Anthony Strallan," he nodded slightly at her. "Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner." He seemed genuinely struck at his lapse.

"Well if you insist, I suppose I'll have to," Edith sighed, in mock exasperation. "Thank you for taking care of me."

His smile was replaced by a faintly anguished look. "I'm sorry that you got hurt in the first place. It was my fault. I was being thoughtless. You must have been scared silly to find a strange man in your house."

Edith heard the practiced note of self-criticism in his voice and was seized with the desire to banish that anguished look. "I _was_ quite frightened, to tell the truth," she admitted. "But you turned out to be not _quite_ as strange as I had feared," she teased.

He laughed again, surprised by her levity. "In that case, I'm delighted that you find me only _slightly_ bizarre."

"Well, perhaps once I get to know you," Edith retorted in kind.

He grinned at her then, and she couldn't help but feel proud that she had inspired the pleasure in his glinting blue eyes. She smiled back, feeling her cheeks flush and her heart flutter as she willingly lost herself in his gaze.

The sound of a car pulling up outside shattered the moment. He jumped.

"I'll bid you farewell now, Miss Crawley. The doctor will be sure to patch you up," he said quickly, hastening to the door.

"Oh but—I was hoping—" she blushed again, "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

He hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously towards the sound of the doctor's footsteps crunching along the front path.

"Well you see, I'm not—"

"I'd really love you to stay," Edith said softly, wondering at her own honesty.

He returned his eyes to hers then, his own panicked ones softening. "How about tomorrow evening, Miss Crawley? Would that suit?"

"Okay," Edith conceded, "Tomorrow at six. And this time, don't creep up on me. I can't afford a broken leg as well as a broken wrist," she joked, and the last thing she heard as he slipped out the door was his surprised chuckle.

This was followed closely by the trill of the old-fashioned doorbell.

* * *

After a trip into town to get her fractured arm set into a cast and dinner with the kindly doctor and his wife—also friends of the Bates'-Edith returned to the library. She settled down next to the old-fashioned telephone, and pulling out her cell phone for reference, dialed.

"Hello?" the voice on the other end of the line queried uncertainly.

"Anna? It's me, Edith."

"Oh hi! I didn't recognize the cottage number," Anna explained apologetically.

"Sorry, mobile service is a bit dodgy around here."

"Ah yes, I remember," Anna said, her tone hinting at some rather isolated summer holidays there during her teen years. "So, how are you liking the old place?"

"Oh, it's darling. And it's so nice to be out of London. It's so peaceful here. I feel brand new already."

"Great! When are you coming back to civilization?" Anna teased.

"Never! I think I'll simply retire here."

"Then what happens to Michael?"

"I dunno—you can have him," Edith suggested unenthusiastically.

"No thanks—I'm a married woman. But what's that supposed to mean? Are you and Michael having trouble?"

"No," Edith said in a voice that was far from decided.

"Well, _that_ sounds convincing," Anna observed sarcastically.

"Hey, I met one of your neighbors, by the way," Edith changed the subject.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, well a few actually—Dr. Clarkson and his wife—"

"Aren't they darling? I used to love going over to their house when I was younger. Do they still have that enormous dog?"

"Tilly? Yep. I also met Anthony Strallan. Do you remember him? He said he knew your parents."

Anna was silent.

"_Sir_ Anthony Strallan?" she asked at last, her voice small and breathless.

"Is he a Sir? He didn't mention it," Edith said, thinking that the modesty was just like him.

"Edith—Sir Anthony Strallan used to own the cottage. He left it to my family—" Anna's voice warned.

"Okay…"

"To my _great _grandfather," Anna emphasized.

"Anna, what are you talking about?"

"Edith, the only Sir Anthony Strallan I know of _died_ almost seventy years ago."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **The astute among you will have realized that this fic is an homage one of my favorite films, _The Ghost and Mrs. Muir_ (1947). If you haven't seen it, I urge you to look it up. I love to watch it this time of year—it's witty and romantic and you'd never believe Rex Harrison could be so sexy! I can assure you it won't spoil your enjoyment of this fic at all.

Thanks for your lovely and kind support!

* * *

**Chapter 2**

_Anthony Strallan, you are a fool, _the former Sir Anthony chided himself from his seat atop the church bell tower. He had, out of respect for Edith, removed himself from the cottage to spend the evening, and sat watching the lights on the water, his long invisible legs hanging down over the eaves, turning the day's events over in his mind.

He hadn't intended to be seen. He'd spent years hovering about his old properties, most of it at Gull Cottage as it was not inhabited on a regular basis, and it had been years since he'd suffered such a lapse. He'd easily re-cultivated the military vigilance that had served him so well during his mortal years and, when needed, found he could heighten his perception through some strange supernatural power. And yet with all that, he had let himself be seen!

Though deep down he knew he was lying to himself. Deep down, he knew he'd been hoping this lovely new stranger would discover his presence. For, just as Edith had felt the house's immediate embrace, so too, did Anthony feel his spirit stirred by her arrival. She was, he admitted freely, breathtakingly beautiful—yet more alluring than her wide eyes was the strength of the gaze within them, more enticing than her lithe form was the energy of her movement. With all that was mixed a childlike sincerity and even, he'd noted as he watched her sleeping before the fire that first evening, a hidden vulnerability and longing.

What's more, the eternity to which he was bound was lonely. Oftentimes crushingly so. The late Sir Anthony Strallan often bitterly remarked how fitting it was that his afterlife should be such a close imitation of his mortal one; comprised of unending solitude. Nevertheless he'd discovered ways to ease the monotony—to add some purpose to his immortality. Dickensian as his existence was, it seemed that he did not share the fate of Marley and his associates, and so was able to use his undetectable form (initiated at will) and unrestricted physicality to play the part of a benevolent guardian—taking an active role himself or else guiding the living towards those they could aid, or save, or love. He'd learned early into his afterlife that attachment to those with a mortal life only brought heartache as they moved on and you were left behind. Alone.

But here he was again, after all these years, risking the same heartache. _And why?_ He asked himself again and again. _What is it about her? _And though he pondered the matter throughout his sleepless night and into the next day, he found he could not find any sense or logic in the course he was about to take, nor could he still the longing he was beginning to feel in his deceased, though by no means lifeless, heart.

* * *

"_The only Sir Anthony Strallan I know of died almost seventy years ago…"_

Anna's words broke into Edith's thoughts for the hundredth time.

_But that's impossible, _Edith's mind argued back for the hundred and first time. _There must be another Sir Anthony Strallan_.

And, resolutely setting down her empty coffee cup, Edith determined to find out.

Soon she was seated staring impatiently at the local library's one, unbearably slow computer waiting for Whitecliff's equally sluggish internet service to resolve her genealogical query. Edith almost held her breath as the page for which she was waiting slowly loaded, first the ads, then the borders, then the confirmation she was seeking. There was, and had only ever been one Sir Anthony Strallan. And he had died in 1947. The family tree on the page stopped irrevocably at Anthony's name, underneath which a small, red font read: _buried at Locklsey House in Yorskhire._ She noted that a horizontal line connected Sir Anthony to one Maud Christiana Herbert, but that she had died many years before her husband, and that no line stretched down from the union to suggest children. Rather than the fear or satisfaction she thought she might feel at uncovering her dinner guest's true identity, Edith felt a sudden sadness settle over her. _How lonely he must've been_.

Edith left the library and went again to the local market, her mind still full of the revelations of the past few hours. She'd decided on a spiced apple pork loin for dinner and picked up some of the bakery's sticky toffee pudding for dessert, but as she paid for her groceries, she couldn't help wondering if it was all moot. If he really was…Edith still couldn't quite make herself admit the word "ghost"… could he even eat? And yet she bought and prepared (a task made more challenging by the incapacitation of her left wrist) and bustled around the house to create an atmosphere that was perhaps a bit beyond simply welcoming. She also took special care in her own appearance, digging out her best outfit, which was not at all close to what she'd liked to have worn for such an occasion. _Oh well_, she sighed to herself as she surveyed the sweater-skirt combination, _you didn't pack expecting you'd be entertaining a ghost for dinner._ And she had to laugh at the absurdity of such a thought as she clasped on her earrings and headed downstairs.

* * *

Anthony arrived at exactly six o'clock. Edith, in the kitchen bent over her pork loin, closely examining a meat thermometer, jumped when she heard the sound of the doorbell. Giving her hair a hasty tousle, she hurried out into the cool hallway and glided over to open the door.

And there he was, wearing the same tweed suit he'd been wearing the day before—but that she now noticed was cut in a much outdated style. She grinned awkwardly as she realized she was scrutinizing him—her mind searching for some sign of the supernatural. It seemed devious somehow that she might know his secret—if indeed it _was_ true_, _her rational mind kept arguing. Yet how to approach such a subject without seeming completely mad? And if he _was_—a spirit- would he be offended? Was one's mortality something you discussed in polite society? Again Edith remarked that the whole situation was so utterly absurd.

"Dinner will just be a little bit longer," Edith nearly blurted, trying to cover her awkwardness.

He smiled good-naturedly at her.

"I see the doctor set you up nicely," he gestured to her arm with his good one.

"Oh, yes, it's a fracture, nothing too bad. Though it does itch terribly. I'll open the wine and we can have a drink before dinner," she chattered. "I've set up a table in the library," she threw over her shoulder as she scurried off to the kitchen.

Anthony chuckled to himself at her nervousness, determining to put her out of her misery as soon as possible. He then strolled into the library and seated himself at the table.

"Here we are," Edith burst in with a bottle in her fist. She seemed slightly more composed as she poured out the wine.

When she had seated herself, she sat for a moment, fingering her cast uncomfortably. Anthony watched her mind spin behind her eyes. Finally, a look of resolution settled on her face and she took a fortifying sip of wine, and began.

"Sir Anthony, this is going to sound completely—"

But that was all she got out before Anthony interrupted her in his calm, compassionate voice. "My dear Miss Crawley. I fear you must have discovered certain facts about my…about me. Facts that your rational mind are telling you couldn't possibly be true. I hope you won't be too frightened if I confess…that they are."

He waited for a moment. Edith's face lost some of its lustre and her eyes widened perceptibly.

"You mean," Edith breathed incredulously, "you really are…you're not alive? You're…a _ghost_?"

She reached out a shaky hand and gulped down some wine.

"Yes," he said calmly, watching Edith with great concern. "Are you quite well?"

"…yes," she said after a moment. "It's just…I didn't really think it was possible. I've never really believed in ghosts."

"Funny thing is, I didn't used to either," he remarked lightly.

Edith nodded, still a bit dazed.

"So…er…are you going to eat dinner?" Edith noticed he hadn't touched his wine.

He broke into his half-smile, which did much to improve Edith's ruffled senses.

"While it's true I'm more grave than gravy," he quipped, earning a little grin from Edith, "I can still enjoy some of the pleasures of the flesh, if in a somewhat diminished form."

"Diminished?" Edith asked.

"My senses are…quite dulled…by my…shall we say, spirithood…but not gone," he explained.

"How strange it must be," Edith mused aloud.

"It took some getting used to," he admitted.

"Well, in that case, I'd best go see to that pork loin," said Edith, hopping up.

* * *

"I love the house by the way," Edith remarked, loading her fork with yet another bite of warm, gooey pudding. "Did you design it?"

"No," Anthony replied, himself languorously emptying his own plate. "I believe it was designed by a sea captain named Gregg around 1880. I purchased it after Maud died." A rueful look stole over his face.

"Your wife," Edith stated gently.

"Yes," he concurred, pulling his smile back, though a slight sadness lingered in his eyes "I found I wanted to get away from Locksley after she passed. I bought this place here on the coast. It's refreshingly different from Yorkshire."

"_And_ London," Edith remarked.

He chuckled at her disdain. "Indeed."

"Anna—Anna Bates—said you left the house to her great-grandfather," Edith recalled, loving the way his laugh seemed to warm her very heart.

"Oh yes. I came here less frequently after the war, and Bates and Anna—the Anna I knew—went through some tough times and they needed a place to get away and work things out. I offered them the cottage, and then when the kids came they regularly took family holidays here. Bates was a good man, and Anna was one of the kindest women I've ever known. When I died, I couldn't think of anyone more fitting to have it."

Edith smiled at his warmth when speaking of his old friends. It was good to know he had once had some companionship.

"At any rate, I'm so very pleased _you_ like the house," he said sincerely, fixing affectionate blue eyes full upon her.

"I do, very much," Edith met his gaze, feeling the glow in her chest intensify. Once again, she felt she might drown in those eyes—full of merriment and melancholy and (though surely she imagined it) admiration and even…desire. Sitting there, staring into this stranger's soul she felt something in her own fall into place…something so new yet so familiar…

Suddenly, he turned away, pulling himself back with what Edith noted fondly as Victorian propriety.

"You said you met Anna while you were studying," Anthony's voice was almost businesslike.

"Yes," Edith scooped up her wine glass and moved from the table to one of the library's overstuffed chairs.

Anthony followed her, planting himself on a neighboring sofa. "And what did you study, Miss Crawley?"

"English literature and journalism, Sir Anthony," Edith answered, mocking his interrogatory tone.

He smiled apologetically. "Forgive me. Sometimes I forget that my time the intelligence corps is over," he joked.

Edith beamed at him, her mind happily occupied with the image of her handsome dinner guest in uniform.

* * *

The hours passed, and Anthony and Edith talked and talked, finding between them an endless supply of conversation. Edith listened, enthralled, as Anthony talked about his life and his career, his memories on the death of Queen Victoria, the sinking of the _Titanic_, World War I, The Stock Market crash and the rise of Nazi Germany. Anthony listened just as entranced as Edith told of her childhood and family, of her work and her passion for social justice. Before long, the ship's clock on the mantelpiece chimed four.

Anthony hated to end what was undoubtedly one of the best nights of either of his lives, but he could see Edith's fading energy and knew it was time for him to leave. He made a comment to that effect and rose to go.

"One last question before you go," Edith yawned, just as reluctant to end their conviviality.

"Yes?" He turned back to her; certain he would grant her anything she desired.

"Why do you haunt?"

He considered for a moment.

"I don't know," he said, almost to himself, "I've often wondered what keeps me…stuck…like this. It's been said there is something you're hanging out for, something you missed in life, some unfinished business…" He shrugged his broad shoulders.

She nodded, watching him through heavily-lidded eyes.

He smiled tenderly at her. "Now, my dear, I think it is time you went to bed."

She smiled back, and Anthony resisted the urge to lift her up in his arms and carry her up the stairs to her bed. Instead, he gave a small bow and strode out into the hall. As he passed silently through the closed front door and out into the night, Edith's face bright in his mind, he repeated her final inquiry to himself. _Why do you haunt?_

_Perhaps_, he thought to himself as he rose into the night sky, _I'm beginning to find out_.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay! RL you know... Thanks for your continued support and patience.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

"Hey beautiful! Have you successfully shrugged the oppression of contemporary capitalism?!"

"Michael?" Edith groaned, leaning groggily against the telephone in the upstairs hall. "What are you calling for?"

"Well, it _has_ been a few days since I've seen you, how selfish of me to want to talk to you," he responded, piqued.

"I'm sorry, Michael. It's just that I just woke up."

"It's past noon. Are you having all-night house parties out there?"

"No!" Edith denied hotly, "I just—got caught up in my book and read late," she flushed at her blatant lie. "Anyway, I'm supposed to be lazy—I'm on holiday."

"Well, I've been missing you, babe," he softened.

"Have you?" Edith asked vaguely.

"Strangely enough, I'm quite mad about you," he kidded affectionately.

"Ah, well, that explains it," she quipped fondly.

"I've….missed you too," Edith she added dutifully. She felt another pang of guilt. She'd barely thought of Michael since she'd arrived. She certainly hadn't spared a moment for him last night…

"Sounds like quite a romantic hideaway Anna's got you shacked up in," he cooed, and she could clearly picture his charming leer on the other side of the phone. "Are you sure you won't let me come up to see you?"

Edith checked her emphatic reply and opted for a calmer one. "No, sorry, Michael. I think it's doing me good to be here alone." _With a dashing ghost_ her mind appended automatically.

He sighed. "Ah well, if you change your mind, you know where to reach me. I'll be sitting home, nursing my lonely heart…" he said in mock despair.

"Don't tell me your social schedule has dried up simply because I've come to the coast," Edith scoffed lightly.

"Hardly," he declared enthusiastically. "I've got a few gigs this week. I'm meeting with a group from Bergmann Technik tonight."

"Bergmann," Edith repeated, recognizing the German company instantly. "And will Frau Dettmer be among them?"

"I suppose she will, yes," he stiffened.

"Well, then I'm sure you'll have no trouble soothing your 'lonely heart,'" Edith sniped.

"Edith, babe, don't be like that. I've told you, she's nothing for you to worry about—"

"Yeah, ok, whatever. I really don't want to talk about it. Have fun at your dinner."

"Edith, you know she's an important client, nothing more. But I have to make her happy and seal the deal if I'm going to get this promotion."

"Yes, well, then I wish you luck," Edith grumbled.

He sighed again. "We'll talk about it when you get back….."

He paused, the rejoined earnestly, "There are lots of important things I want to talk to you about…"

Edith felt her stomach twist unpleasantly at the thought of Michael proposing.

"Right, well, I'll talk to you then," she replied blankly.

"Well…enjoy the rest of your holiday. Love you, babe."

And he hung up.

Edith expelled a noise that was halfway between a growl and a sob. Oh why did Michael have to call?! She was having a perfectly wonderful holiday and he had to go and spoil it. She wrapped her robe more tightly around her and plodded downstairs, her chest a tumult of unpleasant emotions. Not the least of these was guilt; guilt that she had completely forgotten about Michael's existence since she had met Anthony, guilt that she had spent all night talking with another man when she herself was in a committed relationship, and guilt that she wanted nothing more than to talk to that man _again_. Her sense of justice argued that she could hardly chastise Michael for meeting with the predatory Simone Dettmer when she was spending so much time with Anthony. The difference was that her friendship with Anthony wasn't in danger of becoming anything more. She couldn't say the same for Michael and the married yet free-living Frau.

Happy to focus on a more pleasant subject, Edith regarded her spectral friend. She wasn't going to deny that she was attracted to him, and had, she reflected, made a bit of a fool of herself last night. She had flirted with him, she admitted, but it wasn't anything serious. She was just being silly because everything here at Gull Cottage was so fairy tale. What woman wouldn't develop a crush on the ghost of a handsome 20th Century baronet?

Two hours later, the better for some hot coffee and a cheesy carb-heavy lunch, Edith decided she would take advantage of her seaside holiday and go for walk on the beach. The day was brisk and the water was sharp and cold, but Edith couldn't resist splashing her feet into the rising waves. Soon she had pegged her trousers to wade further, only to find her jeans completely soaked by a particularly large swell a moment later. Laughing at herself, she gave up and waded carelessly up to her waist, feeling the magic balm of Whitecliff, through the rhythm of the tide and the tugging of the breeze, restore her equanimity.

Much later, Edith was just splashing her way out of the water when she caught sight of a tall figure strolling towards her along the empty beach. She smiled and waved as she recognized the tan-suited, black-slinged Anthony. With remarkable speed he was before her, his sandy hair and broad shoulders haloed in the late-afternoon sunlight, his smile wide and his cornflower eyes gleaming brightly upon her.

"Good evening," he greeted her cheerfully. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Not at all! I was just getting out."

Edith shivered and snatched up her shoes, falling into step beside Anthony.

"Are you quite warm enough?" He inquired concernedly. "You are wet through."

Anthony couldn't help but notice that her soggy jeans and the bottom of her blouse were clinging quite becomingly to her slender frame. He also noted that the wind had leant a rosy glow to her cheeks and was obligingly teasing her copper curls in a most becoming manner.

Edith laughed gaily. "Oh yes, I'll be alright," she asserted, though she shivered again. "I'd meant only to be wading, but I always end up soaked. I simply can't resist," she declared gleefully. "We sisters used to be such a terror to nanny." She giggled at the memory.

"I can well imagine," he grinned at her playfulness. "I must say your…er…dip… seems to have done you good. Though we'd better get you to a fire before you catch cold, young lady," he commanded jovially.

"Mmm," Edith agreed. "I'll confess a hot shower and some dinner sounds heavenly."

"Speaking of dinner, I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed myself last night," Anthony remarked gently.

Edith felt herself flush with happiness at his compliment.

"I'm so glad. I had a good time, too."

They walked on for a few steps in silence, comfortably acknowledging the mutual delight they felt in each other's company.

"And have you spent your day here on the beach?" Anthony asked.

"No. To be honest, I spent half the day sleeping," Edith admitted sheepishly. "I suppose _you_ don't have to bother with that."

"No, though I'm not certain that makes me the fortunate one. The hours can be long when there is no sleep to reprieve them."

He didn't tell her that those empty hours had gotten even longer since he had met her, that he'd spent his day trying in vain to distract himself and had returned to her side the instant he had felt it proper.

"And I suppose no sleeping means no dreaming. How sad," Edith mused.

"As a matter of fact, it's worse than that. I do dream; but it's more of a waking-dreaming. My thoughts and memories flow freely from my subconscious to my conscious… They _can_ be a comfort, or….

"…a torment," Edith finished for him, sadly. She shuddered. "How awful…to have to come face to face with your nightmares."

"Ah, but also your fantasies…" he smiled sideways at her, his eyes glinting.

Edith blushed inadvertently, and his own face betrayed traces of scarlet as he realized what he had almost confessed.

"Well, I hope you haven't been suffering any nightmares here at Gull Cottage, Miss Crawley," he recovered.

"Please, call me Edith," she urged.

He nodded.

"Then you must call me Anthony."

"It's a deal," she grinned.

"And no, no nightmares. Though I am afraid I'm seeing ghosts," she joked.

"Ah, well, I can remedy that," he said gravely, pausing to let her take advantage of the opportunity to reject his company. His body seized under the weight of terrifying anticipation. He prayed desperately that she wouldn't speak and banish him forever.

"Oh no, I think it's doing wonders for my psyche," Edith replied warmly.

Anthony felt his body relax as the relief washed over him.

"It's the "real world" that's been making me question my sanity, lately," Edith continued, her face darkening as she remembered her conversation with Michael only hours earlier.

"Edith, what is it?" He frowned down at her.

She sighed. "Oh, nothing it's just…"

"I'm sorry, if you'd rather not talk about it…" He retreated.

Edith hesitated, but only for heartbeat. Why should she have secrets from Anthony? It almost seemed wrong _not_ to tell him.

"Well, it's Michael, really," she sighed. "We work together at Royall Communications. And we're…seeing one another."

"Ah," Anthony emitted, pushing away his disappointment to focus on Edith's distress. Yet he couldn't keep fleeting thoughts from chastising him. _Of course she is seeing someone. What were you thinking? That someone as young and lovely as she is would not be snatched up by any man who crossed her path? _And try as he might he couldn't ignore a faint feeling of having been thumped soundly in the chest.

Edith had noticed the light in her companion's eyes dim slightly. _Could he possibly be jealous? Oh, don't be ridiculous._

"What's this Michael like?" Anthony asked politely.

"Michael? Well he's…" Somehow it was difficult to explain a man like Michael to a man like Anthony. They were so very different. "He's in advertising. And he's really going places. He's the top seller in his department and the rumor is he's about to be promoted to head."

Anthony listened attentively. "He sounds like a most capable young man."

There was something about the way he'd pronounced "young man" that made Edith feel as though someone had dropped a small rock in the pit of her stomach.

"Yes, he is. He's getting just what he deserves for all his hard work," Edith said without malice.

"And are you two…serious?"

Edith grimaced slightly.

"I'm sorry, that was far too personal. Forget I asked."

"No, it's ok," Edith assured him. "Honestly, I'm not really sure about Michael. He's been hinting at getting engaged lately, I am fond of him, we've been dating for some time, but…"

He waited, trying not to feel hopeful at the less than enthusiastic tone in her voice. Edith searched for her words, feeling the great comfort in opening up to Anthony about it. Somehow confiding in him was not only cathartic but a pleasure, as if he was the first person to ever _truly_ listen to her.

"I admit I am happy with Michael…It's just…I always thought that I'd feel different…that if I was going to marry someone I'd feel…well, _more._ Does that make any sense?"

"Yes, I think I understand you."

They walked on few steps, the shushing waves filling the silence.

"How did you know you wanted to marry Lady Strallan?" Edith asked, suddenly.

"Maud? Oh, well, ours was a marriage of convenience—you'll remember how…er…old I am—such things were common then, but… I certainly came to love her. She was terribly funny you know—and she took tremendous care of me…" He drifted away for a moment. "But I can sympathize with what you are feeling. I too approached marriage with much less passion than I had imagined there would be."

"Well," Edith blushed, "Michael and I are…passionate…He's terribly…er…active in all aspects of his life…He's quite impulsive actually, which can be charming but also…..exhausting…"

"I'm sorry, you probably don't want to hear all this," Edith apologized.

"It sounds like you need to talk to someone about it. And I've got boundless amounts of time." Anthony replied kindly.

"You're very good," she smiled gratefully.

"I'll never forget our first date," she continued, contemplatively. "We went to a chocolate tasting with one of his potential clients. I had nothing but wine and hors d'oeuvres and chocolate the whole evening. It was great fun but I went home with an awful stomach ache and a slight hangover in the morning. And…that's Michael."

She gave a short huffing laugh. "My grandmother always calls him "Mr. Motorbus."

"Mr. Motorbus?"

"'All bounce and go and no consideration for anyone'" Edith quoted.

"Do you think that's true?"

"No, not really. Granny just gets to hear a lot of my venting. He truly is very devoted to me and when he does slow down, he's terribly funny and sweet…"

"But perhaps not enough to marry?" Anthony suggested as they reached where the path turned up towards the cottage.

Edith didn't reply, pushing past him to climb the winding path up the hill.

* * *

Once Edith had showered and changed into dry clothes, she took a simple dinner on the Widow's Walk, lounging in a wide Adirondack while Anthony stood behind her, leaning his broad shoulders against the casement windows. They gazed out at the horizon, where an orange sun was sinking behind the green waves.

"…I simply find Yeats to be whiny," Edith argued, her unapologetic shrug becoming a shiver.

Anthony chuckled a little. "One might argue that he was merely in love, or that you might have a better understanding of his work had you lived through the war, but I suppose you are entitled to your opinion. At any rate, you've thoroughly answered my question, and it's your turn."

"Here's a cliché for you, Sir Anthony," she began with an impish grin, "What's it like to die?"

"Well that's the trouble, I can't remember. So you'll just have to wonder," he teased back.

"I think perhaps you are meant to forget," he continued reflectively. "Just as we don't remember being born—these are profound truths with which we are not meant to grapple."

Edith nodded, and shivered again.

"At the risk of repeating myself, are you quite warm enough? We could go inside," Anthony suggested solicitously.

Edith shook her head resolutely. "We'll go in once the sun goes down. And you just wasted a question."

He smirked affectionately at her. "As you wish."

"Can you walk through walls?" she asked.

"Yes, I can. And become invisible—should I choose," he flashed a rakish smile, and Edith felt an appreciative thrill rush from the nape of her neck to her temples.

"So when you came into the library yesterday, did you just pass through the wall to get in?"

"Right through."

A thought struck Edith.

"Did you open the window in the bedroom the other night?"

"I confess, I did."

"Why?"

"The fireplace in that room hasn't been properly cleaned for some time. I didn't want you to get smoked out," he explained.

"Well, thank you," Edith replied, truly touched.

"My pleasure, dear lady," he smiled, gazing deeply at her. Edith felt a bright, warm, blissful sensation flood her entire being.

Basking in this glow, she turned, squinting into the last low rays of sunlight as they stretched over the water.

Anthony kept his eyes fixed on her, his heart swollen with yearning. A contented sigh escaped her lips, and he felt it in his very soul. How he wanted to kiss those parted lips, now bathed in pink-orange sunlight. He was a fool, of that he was certain, but he was also certain that he was falling heedlessly and helplessly in love with her. Every blissful moment spent with Edith was another reminder of the hopelessness of his situation. She would not love him back, she would enjoy her holiday, and at the end of the week she would leave and marry her dashing executive, wondering at the strange dreams that had haunted her stay. And once again he would be left behind, alone at the cottage with only his memories. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was in love with Edith Crawley. And in that moment, as he watched the sun setting on her face, he knew that he always would be.

* * *

And so the days came and went. Anthony left Edith to her mornings, but always arrived in time to watch the sunset with her, and the two would spend hours talking together until the sun reappeared on the horizon and Edith could no longer keep her eyes open. Every morning Anthony found it harder and harder to leave Edith's side, and every afternoon he'd arrive at the cottage all the sooner.

On her third evening at Gull Cottage, Edith found herself fretting. It was five o'clock and she hadn't had a sign of Anthony. As she ate her dinner, she tried to tell herself how absurd she was being; they hadn't agreed that he was to visit her every night, he probably had lots of other things to do with his eternity. Why should he want to spend it with her?

And more importantly, why was his absence bothering her so much? _Grow up, Edith_, she told herself. _You've just been making an idiot of yourself, as usual. Maybe he's not even real. Maybe you're hallucinating. You sad, deluded girl, you've finally cracked. You're just so afraid of commitment that you've conjured up some silly Jane Austen ideal to avoid facing your true feelings about Michael._

_And just what are those?_ Another voice argued back. But the first voice smothered the second with practiced avoidance as she slumped up to her bedroom, bringing her half-finished bottle of wine with her.

When she reached the room, her eyes instinctively scanned the windows to see if Anthony was waiting for her on the widow's walk. It was empty, and she sighed her disappointment. She put down her wine and walked over to the telescope, thinking she could distract herself by doing some ship-watching.

And presently, she felt the familiar cozy feeling that meant that Anthony was near. She remained bent over the telescope a moment longer, not wanting to seem too eager. She straightened slowly, trying to look unaffected, but thinking she'd never been happier to see him.

"Good evening," he gave his customary greeting, his heart instantly alight.

"Appraising my posterior, Sir Anthony?" she taunted merrily, and was thrilled to see a faint look of guilty embarrassment flicker across his face.

He coughed. "I'll have none of your _cheek_, my dear," he punned deflectively.

Edith winced and laughed in mock pain.

"You're late," she accused lightly.

"Were you worried?" he asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

"Perhaps a little," Edith admitted, failing likewise to feign indifference.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he said tenderly. "I would by no means cause you any distress. But I had an errand to attend to."

"An errand?"

"Er, yes." He turned his eyes to the windows. "Shall we go out? We're going to miss the sunset if we don't hurry."

He strode over to the windows and opened the largest so Edith could step out into the cool evening. A moment later he followed behind her.

As Edith stood, surveying the horizon, she felt something drop lightly over her shoulders. As she looked about, Anthony was gingerly draping the most beautiful antique paisley shawl over her thin frame.

"I hoped this might help take away the chill, so you can enjoy the sunset," he murmured.

As he pulled his hands from her shoulders, Anthony surreptitiously caught one of Edith's curls around his finger for an infinitesimal moment, then let his hands drop.

She turned wide inquiring eyes to his, which were brimming.

"It suits you," he concluded, gazing with unabashed admiration at her.

Edith felt a lump rise to her throat in the face of such adoration and at such a gift.

"It's beautiful, Anthony," she breathed, tearing her eyes from his to further examine her raiment.

"It belonged to my mother," he explained gently. "I'm glad you're pleased with it."

"Oh I _am_. It must at least a hundred years old," Edith gasped.

"I believe Victoria _was_ alive when it was made," he remarked.

Edith turned wide eyes to his. "Anthony, I can't possibly accept this. It's terribly sweet of you—"

He put up his good hand to stop her. "I want you to have it. There's no one else to use it now. Please, Edith."

And she felt she couldn't argue.

"Is this why you were late?" She asked, her heart in her throat.

"Yes. I went to Locksley to fetch it," he explained, his voice low and his eyes full.

"We're missing the sunset," Edith commented.

He gave a small smile and reached out his hand and gently tucked the shawl more securely around one shoulder. "So we are," he agreed.

And Edith shivered, but it was not from cold.

* * *

**A/N: **More fluffy updates likely to come soon. But bear with me as I am about to pop out a baby literally any day now. Thanks for your patience with this fun little fic! :D


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